


never found

by growlery writes (growlery)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Gen, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery%20writes
Summary: It's quiet in the brig. It's a big ship, bigger than the tiny vessel he and Octavia had stolen, the one that he had watched sink, hands cuffed behind him and mouth gagged so he couldn't even cry out. There's nothing else down here but rum and chains, and Bellamy thinks he hears both wailing in the night, but through the porthole he can see the sun, and his demons only haunt him in his dreams.
Kudos: 3





	never found

It's quiet in the brig. It's a big ship, bigger than the tiny vessel he and Octavia had stolen, the one that he had watched sink, hands cuffed behind him and mouth gagged so he couldn't even cry out. There's nothing else down here but rum and chains, and Bellamy thinks he hears both wailing in the night, but through the porthole he can see the sun, and his demons only haunt him in his dreams.

(He didn't see Octavia make it off the ship. Everyone else made it into the boats, he saw, he made sure of it, but Octavia wouldn't leave him, and then it was gunfire and _fire_ fire, and Bellamy didn't see Octavia make it off the ship.)

Suddenly, there is a noise, like metal scraping on metal. Bellamy wonders if his demons have made it into the light after all, until he sees a figure emerge in front of the bars.

“Here,” the man – boy, really, can't be much older than Octavia – says. Something about him is familiar, but Bellamy is hungry, and Bellamy can't sleep in the bowels of an unfamiliar ship, and the light down here is terrible. “You need to eat.”

Bellamy cocks a sceptical eyebrow, but he figures if they were going to kill him, there are easier ways; they could just toss him overboard. Anyway, poisoning isn't the navy's style. He would know.

“Thanks,” he says, toneless, and takes the tray. The square of food is brownish, indistinct, but when he takes a bite out of it, it tastes vaguely like chicken stew. He feels full after two bites, but he finishes it all; he doesn't know when he'll get more. “Did Admiral Kane authorise this?”

“I can deal with Kane,” the boy says, sounding ten years older, and, oh, Bellamy knows why he looks familiar now. Nobody messes with a Jaha. “Drink the water, too. There's no way you're not dehydrated.”

Bellamy's more ache than head, at this point, so he just nods, drains the receptacle in one gulp. Wells is watching him, careful, and Bellamy doesn't know why he hasn't left yet.

“My sister,” he says, before he can think about it, before he can remember his pride. “Is she on the ship?”

“I'm sorry,” Wells says, and Bellamy wants to throw the tray in his face, wants to tear the brig to pieces and then the rest of the ship with it. “John was bragging about having her trapped, earlier.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy snarls, his knuckles whitening where they're gripping the tray. Wells nods, and there's something more genuine than pity on his face. Bellamy doesn't trust it. “I'm going to fucking _kill_ -”

The ship tips, sudden, and Wells crashes to the ground. There's a noise, like something huge crashing down – the rigging, it sounds like, and what the fuck is going on up there? There must be a hole, somewhere, too, because the lower deck is starting to fill with water. Bellamy glances at the porthole; it's stormy outside where it had been clear blue skies.

Wells stumbles to his feet, wild-eyed as he looks around, assessing the damage, and Bellamy grabs at the bars.

“Let me out,” Bellamy says urgently. Wells looks conflicted. “I'm not dying down here, let me out!”

“If I get court-martialed for this,” Wells says, but he swipes his ID card across the reader without finishing the sentence.

“Your father’s Theolonious Jaha,” Bellamy says, because he can't keep his mouth shut, “there's no way you're getting court-martialed.”

Wells looks stunned, but it's too late for him to lock Bellamy back in the brig. The door's already open, and Bellamy shoves past him.

The main deck is chaos. The mast toppled and fell right on the life boats, smashing them to pieces. Somebody sees him and shouts, reaches for their gun, but Bellamy smacks them across the face with the tray, satisfied when they slump to the ground. He relieves them of their gun, tucks it into his belt, glances around for an escape route, somewhere to hide, anything, but then there's a hand on his elbow, and Bellamy whirls around, tray raised. It's just Wells, and he looks terrified.

“The ship is sinking,” he tells Bellamy. “I can't find a leak, but we're _sinking_.” Wells swallows. “We're all going to die.”

“Like hell,” Bellamy says, and grabs Wells by the collar.

He makes for the ruined boats, dragging Wells along with him, which seems to be enough to make sure the rest of the crew gives them a wide berth. Bellamy glances around them, then points the gun at Wells, nodding down at the wreckage.

"Get the biggest pieces together you can find. We're making a raft."

Wells raises his hands, placating. “Put down the gun, Bellamy.”

Bellamy frowns, confused, and then- oh. “I'm not actually threatening you,” he says, feeling sort of awkward. He thought that was obvious. “I just need them to think that I am.”

“Oh,” Wells says. He lowers his hands. “All right then.”

Bellamy gives him a minute, two; they don't have time for anything decent. They just need something they can hold to. The ship rocks, lurches, and Bellamy nods at what Wells has managed to put together.

"That'll do," he says, "come on."


End file.
